Jam Tops, the Fonz and the Pursuit of Cool

by Kris Lillyman

  Also, the name ‘Del Fontaine’ had a certain ring to it, like it belonged to a person in the music business - which is far more than could be said for ‘Dog Turdolski’ which was better off left back in Eastern Europe.

  However, contrary to what he had said in his welcoming speech, Del was forever ‘too busy’ to deal with Gordy directly, so delegated the task to the seismically sullen, seriously short-tempered and superciliously snappy Shaz, who seemed to get sadistic satisfaction from giving him his daily ‘chores’. Shaz, herself, whiled away her ‘working’ hours browsing through magazines, chatting on the phone with friends and polishing her nails, whilst Gordy was little more than a glorified errand boy.

  As a result, he felt that he’d been rather mis-sold the job when he and Del had talked on the phone prior to him accepting the position. Indeed, the ‘President’ of DelFont Records had given him the distinct impression that he was head of a huge, multinational organisation, not a two-bit outfit above a naughty knicker shop.

  Gordy had assumed the job of ‘Runner’ would involve him running from one sound studio to another, taking care of the whims of various big name stars that would surely be signed to the DelFont label. But what it actually entailed was ‘running’ for coffee, ‘running’ to the newsagent for more Slim Panatellas and ‘running’ for the bus to pick up Del’s laundry from the launderette in Camden where his wife had dropped it off.

  Indeed, DelFont Records did not make records at all - unless it was the record for how long a place could go with out being hoovered, or how full an ashtray could get before it got emptied - which were both records DelFont could easily win; their place in The Guiness Book of Records undoubtedly assured.

  But no, DelFont did not make records. What they did, or more accurately, what Del did, was promote records. Using his influence within the industry, which Gordy was astounded to learn was surprisingly significant, Del tried to get up-coming artists ‘air play’ on the major stations. In return, they paid him a sizeable commission.

  He also managed several bands and spent much of his time trying to secure them gigs at various venues around London.

  Gordy didn’t much care for the job of ‘Runner’ but at least he was in the record industry of sorts and he did love living in the big city (just not at Old Ma Makenzie’s B&B). He was like a kid in a sweet shop; spending all his spare money, of which there was precious little, on clothes, records and gigs (although Del would often get him complimentary tickets for these - a perk of an otherwise woefully unperky job).

  Soon he started to fit in with his surroundings; no longer looking like a ‘wannabe’ or an outsider. Even the aloof, very cool Shaz slowly began to thaw in her attitude towards him and on one occasion had actually deigned to say ‘please’ after demanding that he make her a coffee - which, in cowboy terms, was the equivalent to breaking the wildest horse in the corral after being thrown off a hundred times before.

  Thanks to Trevor, Gordy was also receiving a regular supply of comics through the post, usually accompanied by a lengthy letter telling him what was going on back in Bradley - and particularly with the Savoury-Sidebottoms, themselves, who it seemed, were still madly in love and busy decorating their new Star Trek themed home.

  Trevor would also include a list of recommendations for various TV shows that he thought Gordy might want to catch up on - even though Gordy didn’t currently own a TV. His old black and white portable was still at his mum and dad’s house but he intended to collect it on his next visit home. Living in Mrs. Makenzie’s B&B was bad enough, but living there without a telly was absolute torture.

  In a bid to pass the many hours he spent alone and desperate for a better, more rewarding job within the music industry, Gordy continued to pester other ‘proper’ record companies; writing letter after letter, all but begging them to give him a chance, but so far nothing had turned up.

  Nevertheless, even though he’d learned to accept his job, at least for the time being, and had settled into his new life in London, Gordy couldn’t wait to go back to Bradley at Christmas to see Trevor and Frazer.

  He also couldn’t help but wonder if Daisy might be there too - or would she still be in Spain, or Africa - or even Darkest Peru (if, indeed, there was such a place - and it wasn’t just some elaborate back story made up by Paddington Bear).

  Either way, if Daisy was back in Bradley, then he really would like to see her. Because no matter how he had tried, he still couldn’t get her out of her out of his brain.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  December in Manchester was cold and miserable.

  Daisy sat snuggled up in bed, propped up on her fluffy, flannelette pillows, in her old, faithful winceyette nightie and fleecy dressing gown; her thick, feather duvet wrapped tightly around her.

  She was shivering with a high temperature after a fitful night’s sleep; blocked sinuses, streaming nose, puffy eyes and aching all over from this God-awful flu she had picked up from someone at the cafe.

  But even though she had rung in sick and would not have to report there for her morning shift, she still had a mountain of work to do.

  In recent months her writing had gone from strength to strength and she was now producing regular articles for Smash Hits, NME and The Face.

  Editors suddenly seemed to be crying out for her work, commissioning her to do pieces more and more often, indeed, she was almost becoming a regular columnist for The Face. Her insightful musings on bands and albums and music in general proving to be a big hit with it’s readers.

  Daisy, of course, was delighted. It was far more than she’d ever dared to even dream of and she loved the work. It was keeping her so busy that it was now getting to the stage where she was going to have to quit the cafe and work as a full time writer such was her workload - and the money was pretty good, too - certainly enough to live on if she was careful.

  However, none of this helped her present predicament. With a fever of 102 and a body that couldn’t decide if it was volcanically hot or icy cold, she still had a deadline to meet and a five hundred word review to write on the Happy Mondays ‘Forty Five’ EP - which she loved, after seeing them perform at the Hacienda earlier in the year.

  Indeed, the music scene was exploding in Manchester or Madchester as the media had dubbed it and Daisy had found herself in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

  But even though she loved the music, the party life was just not for her, so whilst Mandy and Tricia were out on the town having a good time, Daisy stayed at home and immersed herself in her writing.

  However, presently she felt distinctly fuzzy-headed and writing anything at all was proving to be difficult.

  Mandy and Tricia had helped her rig up a makeshift table that went across her bed (like the swivel ones hospital patients used, only Daisy’s was made up of two chair backs and an ironing board - not exactly up to NHS standards but it worked) which her trusty typewriter sat on. Together with a very white, very blank, extremely daunting piece of foolscap set into it that was patiently awaiting her attentions.

  Furthermore, far from feeling lucky to be in Manchester at this musically momentous time, Daisy felt sad and lonely and a little unloved.

  Mandy and Tricia were great friends and she would be lost without their moral support, but they were completely loved up, snuggling up together in their lovely little love nest downstairs and it made Daisy wish that she had someone that she could snuggle up with, too - although not necessarily right at that present moment as she was snotty, sniffly and sneezing over the soft sheets of her sick bed. But it would be nice to have someone to nurse her, to pamper her whilst she was ill; bring her orange juice, chicken soup, paracetemol and whatever else poorly people required to help them feel better.

  But there was no one. Daisy was all alone and she had never felt it more so than laying there, bundled up in her bed, shivering.

  It was the week before Christmas an
d Glynn and Lynn Flynn her hippy, trippy, bible-bashing parents would be touching down at Gatwick the day after tomorrow - Daisy was expecting a phone call anytime soon from them to confirm their flight details, although if they phoned now she was not sure she was well enough to get to the phone in time.

  Once in the UK, Glynn and Lynn would be going home to Bradley where they had rented a house on a three-month lease - which suggested to Daisy, as she had previously suspected, that they would soon be off again, eager to spread The Word of The Lord to the heathen hordes in some unwitting foreign land.

  However, before they set off on their travels once more, Daisy intended to make the most of them whilst she could.

  She longed to see a familiar face, someone who she loved and who loved her, even if only briefly, as she knew it would give her the boost she so badly needed.

  Daisy would see her parents in just a few days, on Christmas Eve, in fact, when she would be travelling back home, herself, to spend Christmas with the fantastic, flower-powered, free-spirited Flynns.

  And she couldn’t wait.

  She only hoped that her bloody flu had gone by then.

  ***

  By early afternoon, Daisy had somehow, miraculously, managed to finish her article.

  Actually she was feeling slightly better; a powerful cocktail of paracetemol, Lemsip and Lucozade seemingly working wonders on her feverishly fluey and frankly quite phlegmy condition.

  By now, however, both Mandy and Tricia were out at work and Daisy had the whole house to herself, which would have been fine at any other time but today, feeling as she did, not so much.

  Nevertheless, with her review finished and the deadline for it looming, Daisy had no choice but to crawl out of bed and stagger downstairs to phone a courier, thus ensuring her article got to her editor in time for publication.

  Unsteady, shaky and looking like nothing on earth, Daisy waited at the bottom of the stairs for the courier to arrive. When she eventually heard the knock on the door, she inched it open, giving the poor, unsuspecting motorcycle despatch rider the fright of his life as she faced him all puffy-eyed, snotty-nosed and bushy-haired. Daisy could tell by the terror in his eyes that she looked like some clammy, ginger alien as she handed over the padded envelope that contained her Happy Mondays review.

  The courier snatched it from her and all but ran back to the safety of his full-fairinged Honda, anxious to get away from the heavily-medicated mucus monster that lurked behind the innocuous looking front door.

  But at least Daisy had done it. She had completed her article and it would get to it’s destination before the all-important deadline. Result.

  Now it was back up the wooden hill to bed.

  As she got to the half-landing the telephone rang. Daisy paused for a moment, feeling like death warmed up. Should she answer it? It could be important, could be her mum and dad ringing from Africa.

  Slowly, she turned and gently descended the stairs again, very carefully placing one foot in front of the other, as her woolly head was spinning and she didn’t want to fall. But as she got to the phone it stopped ringing. Sod’s law.

  Arse.

  Daisy returned to the stairs, slowly but surely. This time, however, she had barely made it to the fourth step before the phone started ringing once more.

  She really wanted to ignore it, desperate now to feel the warmth of her cosy duvet, to bundle up under the bedclothes until this bloody bug buggered off.

  But she knew that it could be her parents calling.

  Again she descended the stairs, trying to move as quickly as possible before snatching up the phone. Success!

  “Hello?” She croaked.

  “Hi, there. Could I speak with a Miss Daisy Flynn please?” said the American voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hello, yes, this is Daisy speaking,” she replied, sounding as if she had a clothes peg stuck on her nose.

  “Oh, wow, great,” said the American, a little over-exuberantly in the typical American, very un-British way. “Hi, Daisy, this is Phil Rothstein of Groove Sucker in New York. How are you today?”

  “Erm, I’m fine, thanks,” stammered Daisy, feeling anything but fine. “I’m sorry, did you say, Groove Sucker?”

  “Yeah - hey, you sure you’re okay? You sound like you’ve got a cold—”

  “No, no, just a touch of the flu, that’s all, I’m fine, really.”

  “Good to hear it. Anyway, yeah, I’m from Groove Sucker magazine - I guess you might have heard of it—”

  “Sorry, do you mean THE Groove Sucker magazine - the famous one?”

  “Phil Rothstein laughed, “Yep, I guess I do. So you have heard of us then?”

  “Yes, of course, I love it - I think it’s fantastic!” Daisy wasn’t lying, she really did. She had been reading Groove Sucker for years, buying a copy whenever she saw one on her travels, guarding it like a precious artefact until she had drained every last drop of information from it, gleaning whatever she could from it’s wonderfully revealing pages.

  Then, suddenly something struck her, “I’m sorry, but if this is a joke then it’s not very fun—”

  “No, Daisy! It’s not a joke. My name really is Phil Rothstein and I promise you that I honestly am the editor of Groove Sucker here in New York - at least one of them.”

  “Bloody hell.” Said Daisy thickly, as she pulled out a soggy piece of kitchen roll from her dressing gown pocket and wiped her runny nose. “Sorry - I mean, wow! Why are you phoning me? I mean, how can I help you?” She was getting all flustered, her astonishment affecting her ability to string a cohesive sentence together.

  Phil Rothstein laughed again, “Actually, I was rather hoping you could help me.”

  “You were?”

  “Uh-huh. How’d you like to come here and work for me? To New York, I mean - working for Groove Sucker as a regular columnist?”

  “What? Are you serious?” Daisy squealed, unable to contain her delight.

  “Never been more so. What do you say?”

  “My God.” Daisy was shocked to say the least, in fact her flabber was well and truly ghasted - she couldn’t believe it, she had just been offered her dream job, the opportunity of a lifetime - and the cherry on top was that this fabulous job would mean she would have to move to New York!

  Madchester was one thing, a marvellous, weird, wonderful thing, but New York was something else entirely, so how on earth could she refuse.

  “Yes! Yes, of course - I’d love to, definitely, thanks.”

  “Great, Daisy, that’s just great.”

  “But wait,” she replied warily, “you sure you’re not joking - I mean how do you know about me - how did you find me?”

  Phil went on to explain that he went to college with one of the high-ups at The Face. The two of them still kept in touch and regularly sent one another copies of their respective publications. Phil had been genuinely impressed by Daisy’s writing, telling her that he found it ‘truly insightful’ and ‘extremely evocative’. Indeed, she was just the kind of young, talented and knowledgeable writer he was looking for.

  Suddenly Daisy’s flu was all but forgotten, the unexpected enthusiasm and praise for her work almost knocking her for six.

  Finally Daisy asked when Phil would like her to start and he said he’d want her in New York no later than the first week in January so she could get straight to work on the February issue.

  “But where will I live?” Daisy asked, immediately seeing a flaw in the plan, “I’ve got no money to speak of, certainly not enough for a New York apartment.”

  “No problem. The magazine owns a few properties in the city. There’s a great apartment in Greenwich Village - you can use that until you get settled - we can take the rent out your salary - hell, you can even stay there for good if you like it. It’s no problem. Whatever you want Daisy, cos we want you.”


  “Blimey.”

  “So - is that a ‘yes?’”

  “Yes. It’s definitely a ‘yes,’” she laughed before sneezing loudly down the phone with such force that she was certain that Phil could feel the wind from it in New York.

  But he just laughed. “That’s great, Daisy. So you get well - enjoy the holidays - and I’ll send you your airline ticket in the mail. There’s nothing to worry about, everything will all be taken care of. And I’ll see you first week in January, okay?”

  “Okay. Yes. Thank you so much.”

  “Hey, no problem. Goodbye Daisy, look forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks.”

  “Yeah, me too. Goodbye.”

  And then Phil Rothstein was gone and Daisy hung up the phone.

  She smiled to herself, her head amazingly free of fuzz, her nose surprisingly clear. Everything suddenly looked rosy because she, Daisy Flynn, was going to New York to work for Groove Sucker magazine.

  What better Christmas present could she ever hope for that would come close to topping that?

  ***

  December in the city was a living hell for Gordy, who was not really in the Christmas spirit at all, as Del had him running all over London. The traffic was chaos and the streets were heaving - particularly around the West End - the roads and pavements chock-a-block with Christmas shoppers.

  And if Gordy heard Shakin’ Stevens singing ‘Merry Christmas Everyone’ one more time then he might well go berserk as that sack of sugary seasonal shit had been blaring out the speakers of every shop and car window in Soho since the middle of November and it was now driving Gordy insane. ‘Bah, humbug!

  Gordy did have to admit, however, that it was marginally better than 1980’s ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ by St. Winifred’s School Choir and slightly less irritating than 1982’s ‘Save Your Love’ by Renee and Renato - but only slightly. Neither of which, of course, were even remotely Christmassy (although Renato did resemble a younger, more swinging version of Santa).

  Gordy’s all time favourite Christmas number one was Band Aid’s ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’ from the previous year, closely followed by Slade’s ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ from 1973. Both were still getting lots of air play and, therefore, also irritating Gordy - which just didn’t make sense because he normally liked them and usually loved the festive season in general.